


This Close

by nanda (nandamai)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-01
Updated: 2003-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandamai/pseuds/nanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack’s last mission doesn’t go quite the way they planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Close

There are things Jack is going to miss, and other things that, well -- not so much.

The neverending (and well deserved) Daniel harassment definitely falls into the first category, though he's pretty sure Carter has got what it takes to keep it up at the necessary levels.

"I'm serious, guys," the archaeologist insists, "I think there's something in this ... stuff."

"Yeah," Jack agrees, unable to hide his grin, "It's called al-co-hol, Daniel."

Daniel frowns up at him, then sniffs at his glass again. "No, more than that," he tries to explain with full use of mysterious Jackson hand-signals. "It's, I don't know, the fire is brighter, the girls' dresses are really ... " It takes him a few seconds to search for the right word, but he finally settles on, " ... colorful."

Next to Jack, Carter shakes her head and points out, "Daniel, you get drunk on NyQuil."

Go Carter. And -- oh yeah. Definitely leaving his team in good hands.

Hands, by the way, that Jack just happens to have very specific plans for, in -- he quietly checks his watch -- three days, eleven hours, and twenty-one minutes. Very specific. In fact, he's already whispered a few of them to her tonight. Probably has bruises on his ribs -- from her very sharp elbow -- to show for it, too.

Teal'c, listening to them all, is almost smiling. "That is not entirely true, Colonel Carter. NyQuil causes Daniel Jackson to become unconscious."

"Ah. Yes." It's Carter's best very-important-briefing voice. "Good point, Teal'c. Thank you."

Jack carefully nods in agreement. And if his eyes just happen to wander, at the same time, to take note of the way Carter's fingers are curled around her glass, and how close her knee is to his -- well, hey. These things happen.

Daniel takes a cautious sip. "Seriously, guys -- come on, Teal'c, don't you feel this?"

What Daniel doesn't understand is that he makes himself such an easy target. An even easier target, in fact, since his un-ascension. But Daniel will probably never understand that, certainly not on Jack's watch (three days, eleven hours, and seventeen minutes), so they might as well enjoy it while they can.

"I feel something, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c admits. "But as I am unfamiliar with the sensations associated with inebriation, I am unable to say if it is anything more than that."

"And I feel nothing," Jack announces. "Carter?" He turns to her, a little theatrically if truth be told, and she holds up both hands (mmm, Carter's hands) in a semi-apologetic gesture to Daniel. "See? Nothing. We gotta get you to hold your liquor, Daniel. Teal'c's even better at it than you are, for crying out loud!"

As last missions go, Jack really couldn't have asked for a better one. A simple treaty signing on a planet three SG teams, including SG1, had already visited without incident. A nice, friendly, welcoming, strife-free planet where they give free liquor -- gallons of it, apparently -- to honored guests. A few days here, a happy little celebration (though the music is a tiny bit odd; that string instrument sounds like a strangled goat), a couple more days on base to clean up paperwork and officially hand over command to Lieutenant Colonel Carter (he still likes saying that as much as she likes hearing it), and -- oh, yeah, how could he forget?

On Saturday those hands, plus all the other nice things that come with them, will be his.

Of course, there is also the small matter of his new position -- part-time instructor in the Academy's military training unit, which will, happily, leave him plenty of opportunities for true evil -- but that doesn't start for a month. And it's not the real reason he's leaving the SGC, either. He's leaving because it's time, because he's sick of being out in the field so much at his age, because he knows he never wants the General's job, and (oh yeah) because it's Carter's turn now, and she's earned it.

And God knows they've both earned the fringe benefits. Hell yeah. A thousand times over.

Funny, he just caught a strong Carter-scented breeze: her shampoo. He usually can't smell it when there are this many other people around, but there it is. Odd, but not unwelcome.

He lets himself meet her eyes for just a second and they share a soft smile.

Yeah, they're both truly pathetic -- he may have behaved more maturely at his high school prom -- but at this point he so does not care.

The last few weeks haven't been so bad, either. Kinda fun, actually. Relaxed. Lots of work (especially for her) but lots of time left over for other things, too. Important things. Like lunch with Carter. Sitting and chatting in Carter's lab while she does ... whatever it is that she does. Driving Carter home.

Very important things.

Things to which General Hammond, knowing that Jack is practically out the door anyway and that they've both always been obsessively responsible in this regard, has been more than happy to turn a blind eye.

Three days, eleven hours, and -- watch check -- seven minutes.

"Will you cut that out?" she says beside him. But her eyes are dancing even more than usual and he knows -- he _knows_ \-- she's counting down, too.

And Daniel -- poor Daniel, Jack thinks with no sympathy whatsoever -- is drunk. Again. Honestly, you'd think a year of omnipotence or whatever that was might have helped his tolerance levels, but if anything, he's an even cheaper date now than he was before.

"It's like it makes your senses stronger, or something," he insists.

Jack has a feeling this has been going on for a while and that he's missed some of it. Oh well.

"Which senses would those be, Daniel?" Carter asks far too innocently. Oh yeah -- definitely the right choice to take over his team. He has truly trained her well in the ways of evil.

Then again, descended Daniel is a bit more evil than, uh, pre-scended Daniel. "Very funny, Sam." He squints at her through his glasses. Takes them off. Rubs at his eyes, and squints at her again. "Though now that you mention it, I've never noticed before quite how good you --"

Jack knows full well he's being wound up, but that's half the fun. "Finish that sentence and die, Jackson," he growls.

Carter chokes on her drink. Which is a nice excuse, really, for Jack to pat her on the back and pretend he's helping her breathe.

Teal'c just stares soulfully into his glass. Since he's lost Junior, there've been all sorts of new experiences for Teal'c. "I believe you may in fact be correct, Daniel Jackson," he says, looking up across the room. "I am finding that one particular female approximately ten meters from our location to be somewhat ... enticing."

Jack can't tell if Teal'c is joking or not. All these years and he's never quite figured it out. But hey, the presence or absence of Jaffa humor is Carter's problem now. Or rather, in three days, ten hours, and -- watch check, Carter eye roll, elbow in ribs -- fifty-six minutes.

"Alcohol does tend to have that effect, Teal'c," Carter explains patiently.

"Indeed." Teal'c swallows the remaining liquid in his glass in one gulp.

Yeah. Jack is going to miss a few things.

***

In their tent, Sam listens to Jack's quiet breathing while she waits for unconsciousness to take over. He seems to have drifted off pretty easily, for him, tonight.

Yes, somewhere, in the last couple months of spending-more-time-together and quietly-acknowledging-that-they-are-so-going- to-jump-each-other-the-second-his-SGC-assignment-is-over and everyone-already-treating-them-like-a-couple, they've started sharing a tent on missions. Completely innocently, of course: hands off. They are still on duty off world, after all.

But it's ... nice. That's all, just nice. To feel his presence beside her while she sleeps. To know what it means for the future without ever having to say so.

The celebration ended late, and after pulling Daniel away from one of the single women before their public display got too out of hand, they set up camp under a tarp at the edge of the village. It's raining, and they were offered rooms, but camping out will make it easier to get up and get going quickly in the morning.

Besides, it's their last mission together as a team and the campfire -- even the rain -- seems nicely symbolic. Though it might have been a little nicer had Daniel not immediately passed out.

Jack (she doesn't know quite when she started calling him this in her head; it's been a while) took first watch, and she took second. But since they're pretty much inseparable lately, that really meant that they shared the first two watches. They talked a little; sometimes they just sat. She's finally letting herself admit certain things, like how nicely the fire has always reflected on his face, so the just sitting part was really quite entertaining.

Unfortunately, now that Teal'c has discovered sleep, he has also discovered how to turn himself into a log. A very dead, very muscular, immovable, unwakeable log. Jack had to kick him half a dozen times to get him up. It doesn't really matter here, on this particular planet, but Sam is going to have to deal with it on all future missions. Joy. Second on her list of things to address at some point (after her unbelievably lightweight archaeologist): Teal'c's nightly comas. Fantastic. But he's up now, he's assured them he's wide awake, he's even gone and stood in the rain for a few seconds to prove it. And as Sam begins to fall towards sleep, she can smell the coffee Teal'c's brewing outside.

But once she lets go of consciousness, it becomes a lot harder to keep from imagining what awaits her (and her tent-mate) in three days, five hours, and seventeen minutes ...

So it's no surprise when she dreams herself to P3X-234.

When they were there, for real, she and the Colonel and Teal'c, it was a pleasant little side excursion. An enforced vacation after their first battle with Thor's replicators. They had few supplies and nothing, absolutely nothing, to do, so it was maybe a little too relaxed. But in other ways -- in one specific way -- it was perfect. Because that was before she'd heard anything about superpower armbands, before that damned force field, before some of the most humiliating and painful moments of her life -- before it all went to hell (though, in fact, after they'd all physically been to hell; God, her life is strange).

For a long time P3X-234 was the last truly happy -- pain-free, tension-free, subtext-free -- memory Sam Carter had had of Jack O'Neill. There are others now, lots of them, and she knows there will be more. But her dreams still return her to this one place, over and over, often to do things they never really did.

In this dream, in tonight's version, she's in the small, clear lake near their makeshift camp. She holds her breath, sinks, floats to the surface where the alien sun warms her naked skin. Drops of water glide sensuously down her breasts, which peek out into the air; tiny ripples caress her shoulders and her hips and her toes. And she's thinking of him, the way she does in her dreams -- wishing he were there to touch her, to follow the droplets with his fingers or his tongue, to spread her legs and lap at her just where the water meets her sex.

In the dream, alone and undressed, she does spread her legs, imagining the still water flowing inside her.

And then, in the dream, she suddenly feels her attention pulled to the shore. He's there, God, there and beautiful and as bare as she is, watching her. His gaze is like a physical touch, closer to her than the water or her own hands, which rise to fondle her breasts. And as she watches him -- as they watch each other -- she realizes he's kneeling on the grass at the lake's edge, slowly stroking his (very nice) erection.

He seems to move in time with the water, though there is no tide. He's rock hard, she knows this, in her dream, and he pulls her to him like gravity, her body skimming over the thin surface of the lake. The sun shifts, and illuminates him, and she stands, walking slowly towards him with one of her hands already exploring between her own legs. And when she reaches him, when she touches him --

Sam wakes with a gasp and a start. Good God.

She often dreams, often has erotic dreams, but not normally off world and they sure don't normally feel like that. Her skin still seems slick (genuinely is, in some places) and her breath is coming fast and her hips are hard at work inside her sleeping bag. Moving, rotating, oh-so-slowly searching for something -- and she knows damn well what that something is.

She swallows, tries to steady her lungs, forces herself to lie still. But though she can't see him in the blackness, her body knows he's barely a foot away, and she can smell his aftershave as clearly as if he were already in her arms. Three days, she thinks desperately, three days -- only where before that had sounded so near, so welcome, now it seems eternal and cruel. Good God. What a dream.

She thinks of escaping, of going to stand in the rain, but --

"You were dreaming about me, weren't you?" His voice is throaty, deep, not sleepy but sleep-dulled. And it hits her ... right ... there. God.

"Three days," she hears herself say. She didn't mean to say that. Not at all.

"Way too long," he breathes. She hears movement, cloth on cloth. And she wonders if he had a dream to match hers, or if he was just listening to her. She's not sure she wants to know the answer.

One thing she does know, absolutely, is that he wants her every bit as desperately as she wants him. She can hear it, feel it.

The low pressure in her belly is so insistent it actually hurts; every inch of her body is hyperaware and so ready for him. And he -- shit, now he's humming, and the hum goes straight to a place she'd rather it not go.

Then she recognizes the tune.

"That is not funny," she says in a voice she doesn't recognize as her own. She's finding it even harder now to keep her hips still.

"No," he agrees. "I think it's an invitation."

"Oh, God," she says. They can't, they can't. Not here. They've held out this long. Only three more days.

And yet ...

"A sneak preview, Sam," he says, teasing her just a little. "A taste of things to come."

She groans at the terrible pun but it comes out more like a moan. Maybe because it is.

Before she fully admits what she's doing, before she's had a chance to make a conscious decision, she's already shimmying out of her BDU pants and her underwear. The silky lining of her sleeping bag feels far too soft and smooth against her skin, and just the thought of how his slightly stubbly face will feel between her thighs -- God. But she doesn't have long to imagine it, because the second she moves towards him, he grabs her (he's like gravity, like in her dream).

And then it really, really does not matter whether this is right or wrong because it is so right as he positions her above him, his arms bracing her hips firmly in place and his breath already tickling her supercharged, superheated flesh.

"Please ... Jack ..." she hears herself beg, shamelessly, her eyes stinging from wanting him so much. And then his mouth is on her, hot and open and wet and perfect. His tongue strokes from bottom to top and her whole body convulses. In a strange, quick moment of rational thought she tries to figure out what to do with her arms. She can't touch the tent pole (don't touch the tent pole) so one hand ends up tangled in his coarse hair and one bunched into a fist on her own knee, helping her to balance.

His teeth nip at her labia and her back arches, strung as tight as a harp; his suckling blends with the dripping of the rain outside; he somehow maneuvers his fingers to open her further to his touch. And that sound he's making in his throat, low and hungry and rapturous -- she has never heard that sound before but she intends to get very used to it.

He sucks her clit between his lips and it doesn't matter that she let herself get sucked in (no pun intended) by that stupid song, or that they're on a mission, or that they were this close to making it to the bitter end, or that one of her teammates (who cares which one) is just outside the tent, keeping watch. What matters is his lips and his teeth and oh, God, his tongue, and she's saying ridiculous things like "God, baby, yesyesyes" (baby?) and mumbling his name over and over and she's got her own hands inside her t-shirt to cup one breast and pinch the nipple on the other, and she swears she can still feel the water on her skin from her dream and God, that tongue, it's Jack's tongue and it burns and it's inside her and on her and everywhere and she comes fast and hard above him, her insides thundering and boiling and melting while she works very hard not to scream.

He doesn't let her go right away. He licks her clean, taking his time; places a kiss on each of her thighs; and helps her shift back on her stiff leg muscles until she's kneeling beside him. Then he makes some wisecrack but she is so not listening. She's reaching into his sleeping bag, finding his zipper and tugging at it, needing to share this with him, needing him to feel what she's just felt, now.

"Carter, God, you don't have to -- " he protests feebly, but then her mouth surrounds him (so hard, so thick) and his hands land in her hair and he seems to lose the ability to say anything but her name.

***

For as long as he can remember, Jack has always awoken a few minutes before his alarm. Today two things register as soon as his eyes open: one, the rain has stopped; and two, his face is buried in Carter's hair.

He feels himself smiling uncontrollably, and judging by the pain in his jaw, he probably slept that way. God, this woman, what she does to him. Pathetic.

He's got a vague memory of sliding her -- in her sleeping bag -- over the tent floor towards him, and her chuckling in response. But it's still quite pleasantly hazy, because moments before that she had given him the best blow job of his life. And moments before that, she'd fallen to pieces above him, utterly undone and utterly amazing.

Oh yeah. As last missions go, he could never have dreamed up a better one.

His smile actually grows -- he wouldn't have thought it possible -- when he realizes he hasn't even kissed her yet, let alone made love to her, not really. Or seen her breasts. Or properly admired her ass, or undressed her, or --

God, what an unbelievable time they are going to have together, in -- oh. He can't check his watch. That arm is currently falling asleep under her head.

Sweet.

Carter's alarm bleeps half a second before his own does. He feels her shift as she awakens, feels her stretch a little bit and curve her body closer to his through the layers of microfiber and down. He's half waiting for her to tense up when she realizes where they are, but she never does.

He loves that.

He brings his free hand up to her hair. God, Carter's hair. "So, uh, so I'm guessing there was something in that stuff after all," he says to the back of her head.

"I think that's a good guess." He can hear the smile in her voice. Absolutely.

"Should I apologize? For taking advantage, or ... something?" He knows the answer, but it feels like he should ask anyway.

"Not if you want to live," she says. And then, more seriously, "You okay?"

He thinks before answering. He wants to be sure. "Yeah. Got a little guilt going. Not much, though. You?"

"I can live with it."

"You'd better." The urge to kiss her neck almost overpowers him, but he's much more capable of resisting his urges this morning than he was last night.

One of her hands appears above her head. "This close," she says, demonstrating.

"Three days --" he starts, but she finishes for him.

"Two days --" she can see her watch; he still can't, "-- twenty-three-hours, and thirty-nine minutes."

"Well," he reasons, "We didn't really have sex."

"Felt like sex to me." Again with the smile in the voice, and oh yeah, that's his Carter -- no falling back on flimsy excuses.

So he allows himself to remember that it's the last day of his last SGC mission, and that he's starting it with Sam Carter in his arms (even if there are two sleeping bags between them), and that life just does not get any better than this.

At least until Daniel swats at the tent. "Hey, guys, you up? Coffee's ready."

"Yeah, thanks, Daniel," Carter calls out.

It only takes a few minutes to go through the familiar routine of cleaning up and packing up, and then they're sharing a log as they sip bitter coffee (he won't miss Daniel's coffee) and swallow rehydrated oatmeal. Jack catches himself thinking that this is the last time they'll all do this together, but it's hard to get too nostalgic when ... well, when he has to put so much effort into not glowing like a lovesick teenager.

"-- totally hungover," Daniel is telling Teal'c. "I was sure my head was going to explode, right up until the fourth cup of coffee."

"I did find it more difficult than usual to rise from sleep this morning," Teal'c admits.

Carter beats Jack to it: "God help us all if it gets any harder to wake you up, Teal'c," she says.

Teal'c tilts his head at her, fondly, if head-tilting can ever be done fondly.

"Well, at least I'm not the only one," Daniel says. "Wait, don't tell me -- you two, still nothing?"

Jack turns to his second-in-command (his lover, a giddy little voice says in his head), maybe a bit too eager to hear how she'll respond.

"Nope," she says brightly. "Not a thing. Sorry, Daniel." Her eyes -- full of laughter, and other things, too -- meet Jack's. "Colonel?"

"Nothing," he agrees, finally losing his battle against that irrepressible grin. He checks his watch -- two days, twenty-two hours, and forty-seven minutes -- and can see, out of the corner of her eye, that she's checking hers at the same time. He can also see Daniel studying them both with something resembling suspicion, but that is so okay with Jack.

"Come on people," he says, still grinning, "let's pack it up! Time to go home."

Daniel grumbles, Teal'c starts tossing ashes onto the fire to put it out, and Carter gets up to collapse their tent. All perfectly normal and expected -- except, perhaps, for the sly smile she casts at him over her shoulder as she goes.

And if his hand should happen to brush against hers, once or twice, on the three-mile hike back to the gate?

Well, hey. These things happen.


End file.
